My father had not just lost his business; he had sold our lives to the syndicate.

The next three days passed in a blur of gray rain and silence.

I did not leave the penthouse.

Every morning, a silent guard left a tray of food outside my door.

Every afternoon, my phone buzzed with a new message from Marcus.

*I know you are in his building, Arya,* the first message read.

*Do you think a high-rise can keep me out? I have the police commissioner on speed dial.*

The next day, he sent a photo of my sister walking to her university campus.

*Your family is fragile,* the text below the image said. *One phone call and your father goes to federal prison for tax evasion. Come home.*

I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the block button, but I knew blocking him would not stop him.

He had the resources, the connections, and the obsession to ruin everyone I loved.

The penthouse began to feel less like a sanctuary and more like a gilded cage.